Stone cold

On that day of cold November sky
I looked down to a half-covered stone
somewhat blue-gray under mud
it fit in the palm of my hand
and weighed near a pound and a half.

A cold stone the size of a cold heart
a heavy weight on that old soul
chipped over time where it rested
unnoticed and ignored it was buried
without the light of a warming day.

In restless sleep I dreamt that night
that I sat by the warm oak-wood fire
in silence I listened to the stone's story
its grinding corn by weathered hands
of a grandmother so long ago.

As the stars of Orion crossed overhead
the stone grew in weight in my hands
the wind died and the fireflies fled
as the shout from the stone itself:
"I am not a metaphor!" resonated in my ears.

I woke to write these words down
before they were chased to the wind
trying to make sense from the scene
of stones not willingly metaphors
but really, what do they know?

I found what I think is an old grinding stone on the hill on a cold November day. I usually find bits of concrete or gravel but this was a nice find. It is flattened from apparent wear with a heart-like shape and a few chips from a disc or plow. Of the many possible uses, the grinding stone is most likely.

Or it could be just a rock.

Either way, I like this stone and I sometimes sit to listen to its stories as Orion crosses the sky.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Weekly Scribblings #25: Well, That Was Unexpected